Fool Me Twice
by Reyavie
Summary: The Warden's sacrifice through the eyes of those who loved her the most.


_AN - Reply to the Consequences Challenge from CMDA. Prompts: Keeper Marethari, Zevran (characters), Anora's boudoir (place) and "Is this some kind of joke?" (question)._

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She hadn't whispered a word about the subject. Amazing, truly. Zarya was never silent; the lack of sound bothered her, murmuring was done constantly, laughter came even more easily and secrets were something that didn't exist in her world. He should have wondered about her sudden somber moods. But he had thought Morrigan had been the cause! Her sudden departure in the middle of the night, one of the first companions the Warden had gotten close too, what else would have made her quiet, solemn as she had never been? He had thought he knew his companion well enough!

Explained what he knew, eh?

The festivities had chased him far. The populace was far more concerned with commemorating their salvation than remembering what he had lost with it. Zevran didn't wish to see any of them least he would grab his daggers and start silencing them one by one, one after the other and then more and more until the streets were as empty and bloodied as he felt. He didn't want to see anyone except for one person and even she would have to be breathing, alive to be admitted onto his presence.

"Ah. There you are."

Anora's boudoir had been shrouded in darkness once he entered and he had done nothing to change it. Darkness matched him right then, dark and silent, everything that didn't remind him of her.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

He wasn't speaking to the newcomer. He didn't even know who he was speaking to, Zarya, Rinna, the Maker, the Creators, someone on the Fade now laughing at his confusion. He was speaking to whomever had given him a gift and taken it away before he had truly enjoyed it. He was speaking to life and death and fate before the anguish in his chest grew and crushed his heart, taking all his sanity with it.

"Well. Is it?" Zevran raised his head, barely noticing the flash of white hair visible by the frail light which floated through the open door. "What are you here to tell me? That her sacrifice was worth it? That losing her for a greater cause is better than having her here, fighting a war that wasn't even hers to begin with? Is that what you want me to believe? That all of this was written in the stars and nothing could have changed it?"

"No."

The voice was female, slightly accented, heavy with authority and pity.

Zevran felt like slitting that throat merely because the last feeling hanging from such a small word broke his pride instead. He would have, he was so close to snapping, a width of a single hair keeping him from harm; to himself or others, Maker knew he couldn't precise which.

If she had spoken, he would. Only she didn't. Instead, the shadowy form crossed the space to sit by his side, soft gentle movements barely above a whisper. He didn't need the light, he didn't even need the voice to identify the person. No one else would have come for him if not for Zarya. No one else would dare to come in her name, not while the wound was still dripping. If it was anyone else gripping his hand, Zevran could have ripped it out, smashed it underneath his fingers. If it was anyone else except the woman Zarya had worshiped and loved, whose hand she had held – in affection, in worry, for love, for aid. Such an alien motion, it was. He stared down at the hand like it contained all the answers he wished. Never at the woman's face.

Zarya had told him their tattoos were the same, exactly the same and that had made her so very proud.

"I have a story to tell you," the woman began and all Zevran could think was how wiry her bones were, how old her skin, how easy it would be to silence that voice if it hurt. "When Zarya was twelve, she disappeared for a whole day. No explanation. She merely grabbed something to eat and was off without a word to anyone. All hunters who could be spared were sent in search. We found her sleeping by a farm a few leagues away. Apparently, one of the Da'len had commented about the appearance of humans, I do seem to remember red skin and spikes were involved in some manner. She simply had to know the truth."

If the story had a meaning, he could not find it.

"When she was five, she put in her mind that she would learn how to swim. She took Tamlen, a friend of hers and no else to the river. The current was strong and her arms were still too weak. Twenty minutes after Tamlen ran into the camp, yelling for aid. She was holding herself onto a tree branch as to not be dragged away."

The hand in his tightened gently as he swallowed. Slowly, very slowly, his throat felt as if the flu had come earlier and taking over his body.

"When she was a few weeks old, her mother placed her in my arms. And she was such a pretty baby, loud, boisterous, filled with life. It was happiness from such a sad affair. I thought: This will save her mother. This baby, out of everything, can keep her in life instead of running off to death. I thought it was enough, I thought it was everything so I did not stop her when she walked away, leaving the baby in my care."

The rogue didn't need light to hear the tears in her eyes.

"I failed to protect her, Da´len. Again and again," Marethari said simply. "Not you."

What a foolish notion.

"You were not here."

"Neither would she if I had done my task. Parents should not live to see their children die."

"Neither should lovers."

A pause extended itself in the mist of their words. There was anger building up, against himself, against the Keeper, even against the dead Warden, sleeping outside as the people celebrated. How had she dared to leave him behind, without a word, without fear bubbling through? How had he dared not to see it? How could he dare to keep breathing?

"She would hate if you threw your life away."

Like her father likely had. What did it matter? They were dead; their anger did not matter anymore, not when compared to this anger of being left behind.

"She did the very same," he snapped out and then, childishly. "It is not fair."

"Nothing in love ever is. It is selfishness or selflessness to die in order not to see a loved one die?"

He had no reply for her. His heart yelled selfish, it insulted the woman who had wormed her way into it and dug her own little place before claiming it all to herself, damned her. It whispered it was selfless as she had saved him and her and so many others. Between so many feelings, Zevran had no answer to give the older woman. She likely knew no more than he.

Her hand did not escape. It stayed near, support and supported as time passed and the party raged on. It was strangely less heavy a burden with it. As if he was staying out of time, numb, asleep, a world where no understanding was needed; only comfort and a sympathetic presence.

Hours passed before they were interrupted. The door was pushed ajar strongly, a candle in the hands of a blond armored man with as much subtlety as an ogre.

"What are you two doing there? Zevran. You're not. I mean. Come on, she is a little out of your age range, surely?"

Ah, Alistair. And people said he was the one constantly in the gutter. Who else but this poor Chantry boy would reach that amazing conclusion after seeing he with an old wom— hm, perhaps it did make some sort of perverted sense.

"I was already leaving, your Majesty." Sinewy fingers slid away from his, the old sofa creaking softly as her weight disappeared. "I will leave you both to your conversation."

Wet trails marred her rugged skin, eyes as red as blood and sadness in every gesture.

"Keeper?"

Kindness in her gaze as well, kindness and empathy.

"Yes, Da'len?"

"I did love her."

Her lips turned at a corner.

"Your eyes tell me that with every drop you don't shed, young one. You do not need to justify yourself to me."

The Keeper left, silent feet in the awkward stillness marked by Alistair's movements. He held on for a few more moments, confused, perhaps bothered by the bad judgment he had done of the situation and yet, Zevran did not care. It hurt, it hurt too much and his eyes were dry but he knew that, for whatever reason, he would join the Keeper at some point. He would hear her say how it wasn't his fault; he would feel he would have done the very same in Zarya's place and try to keep on going while dragging the older woman along. One day he would smile, another he would cry, somewhere in the far future he would even stand up again. Believe it was love instead of selfishness or selflessness.

Besides, Zevran could hold onto his angry words until he found her again. She would definitely deserve every one of them.


End file.
